Foundation
by Florentine Quill
Summary: The start of Sarkan and Azar's relationship. Set Pre-Show.
1. Moves

Azar restrained the urge to straighten her spine or shiver in response to the Trickster currently dancing about the edges of her personal space. She snarled under her breath and heard a soft laugh from behind her. She walked a few more steps and sensed more than she heard the Trickster still trailing behind her. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, drawing to a halt nearby the stairs leading to her loft. The Trickster had developed this irritating habit of working with her whenever she was on her trapeze and then following her about the bataclan. It was starting to become truly disconcerting to the trapeze artist, wondering what had caught the eye of Kooza's solitary creator.

She turned, intending to ask the enigmatic man exactly that when she found him standing less than a foot away and watching her with eyes that seemed to glitter in the low lights. Azar stared up at him, her own eyes darkening with caution. The Trickster smirked at her wary expression before looking down, at her hands, which were clenched into tight fists. He reached out his hand and caught one of hers, bringing it up and smoothing her fingers out. He traced over rough calluses, souvenirs of her time spent on the trapeze and glanced up, lips curving into a gentler smile.

Azar watched him, curious as to what he wanted. The Trickster lowered his gaze back to her hand and raised it further, pressing a soft kiss to her palm where the calluses faded away to smoother skin. Azar did shiver then, feeling unsure of herself for the first time in a long, long time. White eyes gleamed as the Trickster pulled back, his expression softened. "….Your move," he murmured before fading back into the shadows of the bataclan soundlessly.

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**AN: I liiiiive! As promised, the series of drabbles/oneshots dedicated to the beginning of Sarkan and Azar's relationship within my Koozaverse. I'll post a new chapter a day unless I'm so swamped by school work that I pull my head out of the books only to go to bed. **


	2. Questions

Azar looked out over Kooza from her trapeze as she contemplated the situation she was currently avoiding. Glancing down, Azar twitched as she spotted the familiar red and gold stripes of the Trickster's suit. Even as she closed her eyes, she heard the Trickster's low laugh echo up to her. She snarled under her breath and forced her mind back to the matter at hand. For whatever reason, she had caught the attention of the Trickster. Trickster, the entity who had created all of Kooza and its inhabitants, including her. Risking another glance down, Azar breathed a small sigh of relief: The suit, with its enigmatic owner, was gone.

Taking a hold of her own small gift, Azar lowered the trapeze down to the ground and slid off. She sent the trapeze shooting back up into the air as she walked back towards the bataclan, still thinking and frowning. What had she _done_ to catch his attention? Azar hissed softly at that thought. She did not like not knowing things, not knowing why her world was changing.

"My, what a deep look of concentration." Azar looked up, freezing as she looked up to spot the by-now familiar visage of the Trickster. She bristled for a moment before checking her anger. This was an opportunity to get the answers she wanted. She took a moment to study the Trickster, ignoring her natural reaction to avert her gaze in the presence of Kooza's creator out of a deep seated respect for him; looking over the fine bone structure, the pale skin and vibrant markings.

A small spark flickered in her, pleased with what she saw. For the Trickster's part, he met her gaze calmly, a gleam of approval visible in his eyes. "What do you want?" she asked, sounding far calmer than she felt.

The Trickster chuckled, deep and darkling as he braced his arms on the wall to either side of her, pinning her in. "You," he replied simply.

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**AN: And here's the next drabble! Not much for me to say about this one but I do have two other notes. **

**1. Manipulations and Apologies and Orders in Metamorphosis underwent some major (read: rewritten) editing after getting a in depth critique from of my friends. I have no idea if FFnet sent you a story alert, so this is me making sure that you know about the changes. **

**2. I am going to be changing my pen name from AnimeOtaku31821 to Florentine Quill. I still like anime but it's not the most important thing in my life and I've mostly stopped writing anime fanfiction. I'll probably change it before I post the third chapter of Foundation.  
**


	3. Answers

Azar blinked, nonplussed at his surprisingly forward answer. "Me," she repeated numbly. "What does that mean," she asked, eyes narrowing.

Sarkan tilted his head to one side, eyes glittering. "Many things," he murmured, lips curving into a wide smile. But then he angled his head in the other direction, his expression softening. "But for now…It means whatever you want it to be."

A very small part of Azar that closely resembled Aysu went weak at the knees and became a gooey puddle. Azar actually felt her knees start to give way before she caught herself with a fierce mental scowl. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and pretended for the brief span of that breath that there was not a Trickster standing less than a foot away, casually blocking her in. After she exhaled carefully, she opened her eyes and studied the man before her, trying to discern any visible emotions in his face.

After a moment, Azar growled under her breath: The Trickster was as unreadable as ever. He chuckled at her expression. "Most people _ask _questions instead of trying to find the answers via telepathy…Which is something I don't believe I endowed you with, _Azar_."

Azar shivered at the way he purred her name, resisting the urge to shrink back against the wall. "Why me?" she asked bluntly. Sarkan leaned his head back and laughed softly. Azar watched the pale column of his throat vibrate with the laughter, starting to feel angry. She reached up and shoved him. The laughter abruptly stopped as he rocked back from her push and his head snapped forward again to watch her again, eyes narrowing by a small fraction. "I am no one's plaything," Azar hissed, ignoring _who _the Trickster was for a moment. "If that's all you are interested in, look elsewhere _Lokisson._" She spat out his title as an insult and reminder, shouldering past him and walking away. When she felt hands on her shoulders she froze, a not-so-silent snarl audible.

"And _that,_" A low voice murmured into her ear, making her shiver again, "is why you caught my eye. There are similarities between you and I, Azar." The Trickster stepped around to face her, his expression intent. "We bow to no one, we have little patience for perceived fools and we are _very_ confident within our chosen fields." He took a step closer, something darker and hungrier flickering in his eyes. "And we can be _ever_ so passionate and possessive," he breathed, staring down at her.

Azar went hot and then cold. She stared back up at him, trying to hold onto a thought long enough to form some sort of response. She inhaled deeply, inadvertently breathing in whatever cologne the Trickster used. _Cinnamon, _a small voice that sounded suspiciously like Aysu remarked. _Cinnamon and pomegranate. Mmmm. _Azar mentally swatted the voice and focused.

Trickster.

Her.

Trickster, wanting her.

"…Whatever I want it to be," she repeated, watching him. He nodded. "You have a reputation, Lokisson," she said carefully. "I refuse to become part of that reputation. Still," she said, considering the possibilities of what he was offering. "I find myself curious as to where this will lead." She smiled, the expression made crueler by the dark gleam in her eyes. "…Your move, Trickster."

With that final remark, Azar stepped past him and made her way down the hall of the bataclan and up to her loft.

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**AN: Eh, what the hell. It's after midnight, I've changed my pen name and this is one of my favorite drabbles. It also shows an important aspect of Sarkan and Azar's relationship: He always gives her the choice. She can always walk away or say no and he lets her. He is also allowed to say no to her- one of the most vehement examples is Manipulations- but he holds a position of great power. I want their relationship to be equal and balanced..High levels of physicality and possessiveness aside. **


	4. Wanderings

Azar walked next to Sarkan, silently observing the changes night brought to Kooza and its creator. He was still himself, long legged and deadly in his gracefulness, but there was a laxness about him. His muscles were less tense as they wandered the halls of the bataclan. Azar smiled to herself. She found herself enjoying the dim lighting once her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. The Trickster seemed to enjoy it as well, occasionally trailing a hand along a wall, fingers mapping out flickering shadows. He gave a soft sigh, humming in content. "I have always enjoyed Kooza at night." His voice was low, so as to not to disturb the sleeping inhabitants.

Azar cocked her head to one side, curious. "Why?"

Sarkan glanced at her and frowned thoughtfully before replying. "Part of it is my nature." He smiled; eyes and teeth gleaming in such a way that made Azar want to shrink back. That was _not_ the smile of something kind or mortal. "Part of it is the quiet. Everyone is asleep." Again he looked at her, smirking "Or rather, almost everyone."

Azar hummed noncommittally. "I keep my own hours," she acknowledged. "I never saw you though."

Sarkan's smirked widened. "I watched you on occasion." He tilted his head, regarding her. "I was unaware of how much passion I instilled in you." Azar flushed and he laughed, warm and amused. "So there is a touch of modesty hidden within your pride."

"You do not praise often or so personally," she retorted. Hesitated before continuing, "And even I will show you proper respect, Trickster."

"But you won't bow." There was no censure in his voice, only mild curiosity. "Why is that?"

Azar frowned, staring at the floor. "I…" Her gaze grew fixed, staring at nothing as she worried at herself, trying to find a reason that could be explained with words. "…It feels wrong," she finally said. "Oily and slick and…just _wrong_."

"Interesting," Sarkan mused, nodding in acceptance of her explanation. He smiled slightly. "I do believe we have both learned something tonight. But we both need our rest for tomorrow." He slowed to a stop and Azar felt a small twinge of surprise as she realized they were standing before her loft door. She froze as Sarkan stepped towards her and leaned down, brushing his lips against the skin right before her ear, behind and below her eye. "Till tomorrow then," he murmured. Then he was gone, faded away into the shadows.

Azar allowed herself one long shiver before turning to enter her small loft to curl up in her bed and try to sleep.

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**AN: The next chapter, set a while after Answers. **

**Interesting fact about Azar: She never bowed to Cyrus at the beginning of Kooza, with the rest of the Charivari. She was still in the bataclan when they did so. She found out what had happened during the contortionist's act- enough time to feel irritated about Cyrus's existence and enough time to catch a glimpse of him before her own act was introduced.  
**


	5. Sensitivity

**AN: In response to a review from my wonderful reviewer ToModor, who wondered what was going to happen next: Why, Azar gets to make Sarkan twitch of course!**

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Azar narrowed her eyes as she watched Sarkan discuss something with Ilkin. She and Sarkan had been wandering around the bataclan as had become their custom. Still, the Trickster had his responsibilities…Azar took the opportunity to study Sarkan as he conferred with Ilkin. Earlier in the evening, he had removed his hat with a sigh, raking his fingers through his hair. But that wasn't what had caught Azar's attention. Barely visible between the high collar of his suit and his hair, there was a graceful line of script. It was unreadable, in some foreign language. Azar itched to see the rest of it, eyeing the small part that was visible sourly.

"…Rest and ice. If it looks to be more than a sprain, I'll take a look in the morning." Azar belatedly realized that the conversation in front of her was drawing to a close and cleared her expression. Sarkan was nodding and Ilkin smiled briefly before turning and leaving. Azar felt her lips curl up into a smirk at the alacrity of the Charivari leader's departure. Sarkan chuckled, moving back her side as they continued walking. He glanced down at her and tilted his head to one side. "Something on your mind?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I noticed something while you were talking to Ilkin," she explained. "A line of…something, along the back of your neck." She gestured to the area, even as Sarkan nodded.

"I was curious as to when you would notice," he commented dryly. "Still, any further discussion will have to wait till we're somewhere less…public." Azar gave him a surprised look. Despite the seeming relationship that was forming between them, Sarkan had yet to show her his private rooms. He smirked at her expression. "Your room?" he asked. "If not, I'm sure we could find a secluded corner of the library…"

Azar snorted softly but continued walking, sliding up the stairs ahead of him. It was just a few more steps from the top of the stairs to her door. She opened it, stepping inside and turned to face Sarkan, expecting to find him right behind her. She was surprised to see him standing outside the door, examining her room. "Come in," she invited. He focused on her on as he entered, a smile appearing on his face.

"Very good," he said. She hummed distractedly in response to his statement as she edged past him to close her door, ignoring how loud the click of the door seemed to be. A small part of her mind tucked the fact that he had not entered her loft without her permission among the other small facts she had learned about him through observation.

She shifted to face Sarkan again, wondering at how small her loft was with two people in it. Most of the space was taken up by her bed. There was a small bookcase, half filled with books she had spirited away from the common room's shelves and half filled with trapeze paraphernalia. "You had something to show me?" she reminded the Trickster.

Sarkan gave her a sly smile and Azar huffed, crossing her arms and glaring at him even as she regretted her choice of words. He ghosted forward the two steps necessary to stare down at her, sliding his hands down to rest on her hips. She shivered as he leaned down to press a trail of gentle kisses along her neck. Azar relaxed, unfolding her arms as she nipped at the ear closest to her mouth. Sarkan hissed softly before pausing. He glanced down to see Azar's fingers working at the buttons of his suit jacket. He gave a rueful laugh and stepped back, wrapping his hands around hers. "Patience Azar, patience," he murmured.

Azar scowled at him, attempting to wriggle her fingers loose. Sarkan released her hands and took another step back, his jacket sliding off his shoulders as he did so. Azar watched as he neatly removed his tie, carefully setting it and his jacket on her bed. Deliberately catching her gaze, he stared at her as he started to unbutton his shirt. She smirked at the unspoken challenge, keeping her eyes fixed on his, despite the glimpses she caught of more strange runes around his throat. He casually undid the smaller, more finicky buttons around his wrists before shrugging out of his shirt in one fluid motion, placing it with his other clothes.

He spread his arms wide and started to lean forward in a mocking bow only to be stopped as Azar stepped forward, hands grasping his shoulders to keep him from moving any further. "_Don't._" Her voice was raw and edged with tension. She stared blankly at his chest. "Don't bow to me. Don't bow _ever_." She looked up at him, eyes dark with some primal mixture of anger and fear.

Sarkan stilled at that, dropping his arms down to his sides. "…Why?" he asked, curious.

Azar shook her head, looking down. "You…You're the Trickster. Lokisson. _You don't bow. _To anyone." Sarkan remained quiet, a small part of him wondering how Azar would react if she knew that he had bowed to others in his past. He was distracted from that thought by Azar's sigh. He raised a hand, tilting her chin, so that she was looking up at him.

"Alright…I won't bow to you," he whispered. Azar smiled, letting her hands move from his shoulders, reaching up to loosely clasp behind his neck. She stroked the back of his neck with a thumb absently.

Sarkan twitched, eyes widening. Azar stiffened before she repeated the motion.

Sarkan definitely...twitched.

She cocked her head to one side, observing the strange and beautiful markings that scrolled over Sarkan's skin with new eyes. He watched her warily. She brushed a light hand over the scrips along his collarbone, stopping as his eyes flickered closed. Azar chuckled, her lips curling up in a dangerous smile. She brushed one finger over his throat, watching his expression carefully. Sarkan let out a long hissing breath, several muscles along his jaw and cheek jumping. "That's…interesting," she mused, a wicked gleam appearing in her eyes. Sarkan gave a breathy chuckle that died halfway as his breathing hitched.

"Careful little girl," he breathed. Azar glanced up from where she had planted an open mouthed kiss on his throat, directly on one of the markings there. Sarkan snarled softly and pulled back enough to lean down to bite at her neck with sharp teeth. Azar jerked back but stilled as he brushed his tongue over the stinging mark to soothe it. Sarkan hummed, lips curving in a smug smile as he felt Azar relax again, her hands sliding down his chest to rest easily on his waist.

Azar sighed for the second time that night, looking equal parts regretful and rebellious as she stepped away from him. "You have the Charivari girl to check on in the morning," she reminded him. Sarkan growled softly but reached out a long arm to grab his missing clothes.

He straightened and inclined his head. "There won't always be a Charivari girl to save you Azar," he warned as he moved towards the door.

"When was it ever implied that I _wanted_ to be saved?" she retorted, raising a sardonic eyebrow. Sarkan smiled broadly at that but his eyes glittered with a darker approval.

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**AN: Heee. I enjoyed writing the part where Sarkan twitched. He isn't a character who twitches. Sorry for the mood killer in the form of Azar's bowing-phobia but I cannot express the depth of which the thought of her or Sarkan bowing disturbs her. That and her innate possessiveness play a large part her hatred of Cyrus. Me, as a writer? My stomach gets in knots thinking about it from her perspective. **

**What else is there...Oh. Azar's bedroom has a semi weird layout, mostly due to the fact that it is _small _and her bed is kinda strange. Her room is about 10 feet square, not counting her bitty closet. There are a couple of communal bathrooms on the second level of the bataclan that everyone can use. Her bed is like one of those weird rattan basket chairs... Like this, **http:/ www . makmis . com/ rattan-chairs-basket/**, only less of an incline and a shallower basket and with an actual mattress type thing with blankets and a pillow. Oh, and it has a six foot diameter. Add in the bookcase along one wall (say, 3 feet high, 2.5 feet long and 1 foot deep) and there really isn't that much space for more than one person. **


	6. Intimacy

**AN: Oh look. It is past midnight. . . Have another update! (Feel free to hate me for this one xD)**

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Azar stirred, stretching sleepily. She froze as she felt her hands and feet brush against sheets and blankets much softer than what she was used to. Opening her eyes, she sat up, looking around curiously. She was in a large bed which was covered in a multitude of blankets and pillows that bordered on the ridiculous. The walls were painted a rich brown and covered in soft wall hangings. Azar studied the tapestries briefly, looking over the simple scenes depicted and admiring the intricate knotwork displayed on separate hangings.

The room was spartan in the way of furnishings. Glancing to her right there was a small bedside table. There was a dresser against the right hand wall, set in between two doors. Against the opposite wall was a tall bookcase, filled with thick books. All of the furniture was made out of a dark stained wood and looked heavy. In front of the bed was a blank wall, save for one door.

Azar slid out of the bed and walked over to the door in front of her. It opened easily and she slipped into what seemed to be a combination of a common room and study. Azar barely had time to note that the furniture seemed to be made of the same dark wood as what was in the bedroom when she heard a soft snore. Her eyebrows rose in disbelief but she moved towards the small cluster of chairs, low table and couch, lips twitching. Circling around the large couch, Azar stopped in surprise, smirking at the sight before her.

Sarkan was fast asleep, long limbs loosely curled up in an attempt to keep warm under the blanket he must've taken from his bed. His hat was set neatly on the floor, looking out of place, while his suit jacket and shirt had been pressed into temporary service as a pillow. Sarkan shifted slightly, snoring again. Azar had to fight back a snicker at the sound: If there was one thing she couldn't imagine the Trickster doing, it was snoring. It seemed so…mundane. Inelegant and completely at odds with his personality.

Azar watched him sleep for several long moments, eyes drifting over the rarely exposed runes that trailed along his torso before turning to observe the space she was in a little more closely. She hadn't been inside the Trickster's private rooms before… No one had. Azar felt a flare of disappointment. She had expected something more...grandiose. Bookcases, smaller than the one she'd seen in the bedroom, dotted the wall which was painted the same shade of brown as the bedroom, with a deep earthy red used for accents. Over in one corner, a large desk sat crookedly, its desk littered with paper, parchment, the odd dish or two and a variety of writing implements. Books were scattered on the low table and other furniture in front of the couch, some splayed open while others had improvised book marks sticking out of their pages. Some, resting on the floor, had clearly been moved to make room for Sarkan on the couch.

She wandered about the edge of the room, running her fingers over the satin smooth bookcases and leather bound books. Interspersed between the clusters of books were thick bookends made out of a dark, heavy stone. Azar was slightly surprised to find small glass objects safely nestled in the shadowed space between the bookends. She pulled one out into the light, blowing the dust off it. She fingered the cool glass, feeling over the slick curves of an abstract figure made out of fiery red and gold, limbs gracefully outstretched. Azar placed the figurine back where she had found it, careful not to disturb any of the other creations and turned back to face the room.

She twitched at the overall clutter in the space, wondering how the immaculate Trickster put up with it at all. She glanced back at said Trickster and jumped, startled to see him awake and watching her. His eyes, still half closed from sleep held a spark of amusement. "Not quite what you were expecting?" he asked, voice reduced to a low rumble from sleep. Azar shook her head. Sarkan stretched with a yawn before sitting up to observe the space, propped against the couch's armrest. "All a victim of passion," he admitted, looking up at her slyly. "You get wrapped up in something and the next thing you know, you've fallen asleep somewhere and your stomach is growling loud enough to rattle the balconies. Cue Ilkin's half grumbled lectures the next time you get something from the kitchen."

Azar winced and nodded grudgingly. The Charivari leader had a mothering streak that flared up when anyone within Kooza neglected themselves in some fashion. She had always been careful to give the man no reason to mother _her_… This led to solitary practices and strange hours compared to the rest of Kooza. "I doubt he lectures you," she replied dryly.

Sarkan smirked. "You'd be surprised how careless some of the dishes can be when I wander in on occasion," he replied just as dryly, tilting his head back to watch her, everything in his posture suggesting laziness. Azar laughed softly, looking around her for a clutter free space to sit. She twitched as she realized the only clean seat was on the couch. She settled herself gracefully on the cushion beside Sarkan, raising an eyebrow at the smug gleam in his eye.

"Not your subtlest manipulation of a situation," she said, lips curving up in a wicked grin. Sarkan's eyebrows rose at her accurate assessment.

"Ah well…You're still here," he purred, leaning forward to grasp her wrist and tug her towards him.

"I am," she agreed, allowing herself to be pulled forward. She sprawled comfortably, chest to chest with Sarkan. She felt his satisfied hum vibrate through her ribcage and along her spine. She tilted her head to one side, pleasantly aware of the lack of space between them. She shifted, tangling her legs among blanket and Sarkan's legs. Sarkan stilled, watching her with darkened eyes. He slid his hands over her arms, skimming over her ribs before resting lightly on her waist.

Azar felt her heart start to race but she leaned forward boldly to brush her lips over the runes skimming over Sarkan's throat and collarbones. Sarkan's breath caught and he hissed softly as Azar pulled herself up, pinning his hips and legs underneath the blanket he'd slept under. "Minx," he growled softly, dragging his hands down to her hips and deliberately attempting to shift his trapped legs. It was Azar's turn to gasp, fingers digging in as she felt a shock of pleasure ripple up her spine.

Sarkan chuckled darkly, leaning forward to plant a series of soft kisses along her neck. Azar arched into his touch, eyes sliding shut as Sarkan twitched his hips again. She blindly nuzzled at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, fingers smoothing over muscle slick ribs and down past the blanket to caress narrow hips. Sarkan purred deep in his chest, tilting his head forward to catch a stray earlobe with sharp teeth before relaxing back onto the couch. "It seems to me…" he whispered, fighting to keep his breathing even. "That there is something terribly wrong with here."

Azar pulled back slightly, eyes opening a slit. "Nnn?" she whined softly.

Sarkan smiled, idle fingers sliding up her ribs to brush the undersides of her breasts. "Mmm," he hummed as he watched Azar shudder under his touch, mouth opening in a silent moan. "There's far too much fabric present," he murmured, purposefully keeping his hands still so as to not distract Azar from what he was saying. He was rewarded with a very still Azar. Her eyes flickered opened to regard him soberly.

He met her gaze steadily, keeping his face neutral. Azar let her gaze drift down, over his hands resting on her ribs. She let her fingers drift up to splay over Sarkan's torso. She felt him breathing, slowly and carefully. She could also feel the tension in his muscles, trembling from the effort of keeping his breathing steady. A chill ran down Azar's spine. If she wanted to…She could walk away.

And Sarkan would let her.

Azar sucked in a deep breath, feeling a heady rush of power. Azar let her eyes close as she felt for one of Sarkan's hands. She felt a soft sigh vibrate through her free hand, opening her eyes as she tugged his hand free of her ribs, bringing it up to eye level.

Sarkan watched curiously as Azar spread his fingers out, studying the lines of his palm for a moment pressing her cheek into the long fingers and rough, warm palm. Sarkan could feel the strong blade of her jaw against his fingers and the delicate arch of her cheekbone under his thumb. Azar sat there, letting her supporting hand slide down along his forearm to drop back onto his chest. Sarkan kept his hand on her cheek, feeling her lean into his touch. "I think," she started softly. "That you may be entirely right," she finished, opening her eyes and her lips broadening into a smirk.

Sarkan blinked in surprise before his lips curved up into a deadly smile. He slowly brought up his free hand, brushing over ribs, breast and up along a slim neck until he was cupping her face in both hands. Still smiling, he leaned forward to catch Azar's lips in a gentle kiss. He felt her slip her arms around his neck, fabric scraping over another set of sensitive runes. Sarkan let himself shudder as Azar boldly deepened the kiss, pressing him back into the couch's armrest.

**

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**

**AN: ...Like I said, feel free to hate me. This is the drabble that comes closest to earning Foundation its M rating. **

**I apologize for the fade to black, but I do have some reasons. **

**First and foremost, I don't think I could write a good enough sex scene. Rather, I don't think I could write a good enough sex scene while keep Azar and Sarkan's characters intact. I want to be able to write on the level of Pika-la-Cynique and Asuka Kureru when it comes to intimacy. Yes, practice makes perfect but I want to give Kooza- and you- the best. **

**Secondly...Sarkan is a difficult character. For the first six centuries of his life, he was an unbound, Norse, trickster god. Loki liked to play general tricks up until that whole Baldur business, messing with mortal and god alike. Sarkan focused on luring nice Viking girls/woman away and enticing them into having sex with him and killing them afterward. Or not, depending on his whims. Sex for him was an incredible fun and powerful tool to use in screwing people over for his own amusement. **

**But he gets bound. Add in six centuries of slow maturation and he's changed. But he's also been pretty celibate. Eventually sex comes to mean intimacy and love for him but it takes time. He's not going to force Azar or hurt her but there are some deep psychological changes going on in his head. A) I can't detail those quite yet. B) My mental image of Sarkan is cool, suave, sexy and utterly in control of himself. Two and a half of those go away during sex. He's still sexy and he retains some self control. **

**Agh, my apologies for the overly long author's ramble but I wanted to make sure that you, the readers, understood why I'm not giving you wild, hot, Sarkan/Azar sex.  
**


	7. Companionship

Azar woke, stirring as she opened her eyes. She inhaled sharply, fully awake as she felt Sarkan slide into her bed. "Sorry," he murmured, fatigue slurring his words. "The clowns brought in some outsiders...I had to take them back and make them forget..." Azar nodded and Sarkan sighed, curling around her. Azar smiled, savoring the almost-silent night as Sarkan sank into sleep and started snoring softly. She shifted somewhat sleepily, turning to face Sarkan and let herself drift off. It was nice, she mused, the companionship. She hadn't expected to find it in this…relationship but it was a pleasant surprise.

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**AN: Another pure drabble in the technical definition of the form xD Sorry for the chapter length to suddenly go from 1000+ words to just 100 words. I don't do a lot of pure drabbles though, so don't worry. I like giving fuller scenes and character development, which is difficult to do in 100 words. **


	8. Open

Sarkan walked up behind Azar as she lightly touched back down to the ground. "Good work," he commented lightly. Azar smiled in response as she tried to still her adrenaline fueled muscles. "Let me help," he murmured slyly, sliding his hands down her arms, tangling his fingers with hers. Azar sighed in relief as her muscles stopped trembling and leaned back against Sarkan. He chuckled softly, bending down to place a soft kiss on Azar's neck.

"Ah…Azar?" Azar stiffened slightly in Sarkan's arms as Ilkin walked up to her. "Can we use the space now?" Ilkin looked hesitant, eyes flicking back and forth between Sarkan and Azar.

"Go ahead Ilkin, I'm done for the day," Azar replied, trying to ignore the Trickster draped around her torso.

"Right…Trickster, are you going to work with us this time?" Ilkin asked, now looking distinctly uncomfortable. Sarkan hummed thoughtfully to himself for a moment before stepping away from Azar with a sigh.

"Yes, I'll work with you. Is everyone warmed up?" Sarkan adjusted his tie, his public mask slipping seamlessly into place as he moved away from Azar, focusing on Ilkin and the rest of the Charivari who were nervously clustered at the bataclan entrance.

* * *

**AN: Bwhahaha...Whenever I look at the "draped" line, I get this strange mental image of Azar wearing Sarkan like a scarf or coat, just draped about her shoulders. On a different note, this is the drabble where Azar and Sarkan drop a blatant enough hint to the Charivari (who promptly tell the highwire artists, who tell everyone else...) that yes, they are in an intimate relationship. Before this, they were pretty secretive which wasn't too hard since Azar is "nocturnal" while everyone else is "diurnal." Sarkan can do whatever he wants in terms of sleep, though it is healthier if he keeps a regular rhythm and gets x hours per night. After this though, Azar's sleep schedule starts shifting to something approximating normal. **

**Though once everyone finds out, Azar is going to have to deal with Aysu...That's the next drabble.**


	9. Sisters

"Dammit Aysu, stay out of this!" Azar snapped as she stormed towards her loft near the top of the bataclan. Behind her, Aysu trailed her determinedly, eyes narrowed.

"Azar, he's a _Trickster_! Do you really think that he cares for-" Aysu stopped short as Azar whipped around, eyes blazing.

"_Aysu._" Azar's voice was a guttural growl. "Unlike you, I do not need platitudes of love and faithfulness to warm my heart." Sarkan was well aware of her possessive nature and Azar was slowly gaining a sense of what Sarkan deemed subject to his whims and relationships were not to be interfered with. "Whatever goes on between the Trickster and I is none of your business." Azar watched Aysu for a moment longer before striding away, slamming the door to her loft open.

"I don't want you getting hurt!" Aysu retorted, following Azar into the small room.

Azar turned and shoved Aysu back, hard, with a snarl. "Get. _Out_. Go cuddle with your sickeningly sweet unicyclist and _leave me alone_." Aysu opened her mouth before shutting it, studying Azar who met her gaze, anger palpable. Silently, Aysu turned around and left. Azar watched her leave stonily before collapsing backwards onto her bed with a sigh, closing her eyes. She was so very tired…

Azar's eyes snapped open, feeling familiar hands ghost over her torso as the bed sank under someone's weight. She stared up at Sarkan for a moment before smiling wickedly. She curled her hands in the thin lapels of his suit and yanked him down roughly for a fierce, bruising kiss. Sarkan let her, lips curving into a smile before he pulled away, chuckling darkly. "Ah Azar," he murmured, hands sliding down her sides and resting on her hips. "So very, _very _possessive." He bent down and brushed a soft kiss on the corner of her jaw. "Just the way I made you," he whispered.

Azar smiled up at him for a moment before scowling. "Like the way you made my sister?" she asked, still irritated over her sister's overprotective nature.

Sarkan tilted his head to one side, frowning thoughtfully. "Balance is many things, one of them beautiful," he finally said. "You and Aysu are a reflection of this. Granted it will lead to conflict on occasion..." He smiled at Azar's soft growl, leaning down to plant another kiss on her neck. "She truly cares for you," he said softly.

"I know," Azar muttered uncomfortably. "Still," she sighed. "I don't want her interfering with _this. _With us." She brushed her hands over the back of Sarkan's neck, stroking the sensitive runes there. Sarkan arched into her touch, a satisfied purr rumbling deep in his chest.

"She'll adapt," he murmured, eyes sliding shut. "If not…I can assure her of my intentions," he continued in a sly tone.

Azar hummed distractedly, trailing her fingers down Sarkan's chest. "Later, perhaps…" she suggested. Sarkan laughed gently before dipping down to kiss her again.

* * *

**AN: ARGH. Ok, in Word, there are three centered dashes separating the paragraph where Azar kicks Aysu out and where her eyes snap open. Azar fell asleep for a bit and Sarkan found her like that. **

**Poor Aysu. She tries to protect Azar when Azar really doesn't need it. Of course, she won't let it go...**


	10. Stains

Sarkan toyed with one of the small loaves of bread he'd taken from Kooza's pantry, shredding the loaf into smaller chunks before eating them. He watched Azar spoon up the last of the thick beef stew he'd made for the pair of them and reached out a hand, armed with a bit of bread, to swipe at the last dribbles. Azar glared and aimed her spoon at his knuckles, scowling when she missed, whacking the table instead. He smirked and popped the bread into his mouth, licking his fingers of stray juices.

Azar smiled and shook her head. "Hard to imagine you doing something as common as licking your fingers," she said before he asked.

Sarkan chuckled and settled back in his seat. "As hard to imagine me making as plain a dish as beef stew?" he replied slyly.

When he had presented the main dish for their private dinner, Azar had been visibly surprised. She had confessed that she expected something more along the lines of what Michael made on the rare occasion when he was allowed into the kitchen to cook. Ilkin didn't like letting the Pickpocket into his domain, complaining that things often disappeared into Michael's pockets. Of course, whatever had been stolen was returned, courtesy of Heimloss, who spent almost as much time replacing whatever small knick knacks Michael had filched as he did running the machinery of Kooza.

"As hard as it is to imagine you making beef stew, yes," Azar said, before cocking her head to one side. "Where did you learn to make it?"

Sarkan's eyes looked elsewhere for a moment. "…I grew up with it," he replied absently after a moment. He frowned and crumbled another scrap of bread between his fingers. "Meaty dishes with various vegetables were the main fare. Potatoes were a particular favorite." He glanced up, eyes clear and focused now, at Azar and his lips twitched into a brief smile. "It wasn't until I was older that I learned about other cultures and their cuisines."

Azar sat in silence, a small part of her stunned at Sarkan's sudden willingness to talk about his…childhood? She blinked mentally. It seemed tonight was a night for making her imagine things she had never thought possible. She shivered at the thought. Sarkan tilted his head to one side but didn't say anything as he stood. Azar watched as he wandered over to the counter where Ilkin kept fresh fruit for those seeking a simple snack between regular mealtimes. She let out a soft huff of laughter as Sarkan trailed long fingers over several apples, an orange and a bunch of grapes before picking up a pomegranate. It had come as a surprise to her to see- and feel- how tactile a person Sarkan was. He hummed something under his breath as he walked back to the small island counter where they had eaten, rolling the fruit between his hands.

He set the pomegranate down gently and fetched a sharp paring knife from a drawer and a small bowl from one of the numerous cupboards lining the walls before reclaiming his seat. Azar watched, curious, as he played with the small knife, carefully walking it through his fingers and back before slicing into the thick rind. Bright red juice leaked from the cut and dripped into the small bowl Sarkan had brought to the table. A few moments later more juice splashed into the bowl as Sarkan sliced the fruit in half, neatly cradling the two halves. He managed to keep his suit clean but grimaced as he felt something slick on his hands.

The pomegranate slid onto the island as Sarkan studied the dark red juice now staining his palms and fingers, eyes dark and unfocused. Azar shuddered at the morbid sight and reached towards Sarkan. Abruptly Sarkan moved, pulling back as he curled his hands into loose fists. Azar stared at him for a moment, wary of the sudden, almost feral gleam in white eyes. Slowly she reached down and picked up half of the pomegranate, picking out one of the ripe seeds and eating it. Sarkan's head gave an odd half twitch and he blinked before smirking. "Were you aware that the pomegranate is considered to be my fruit?" he asked, playing with the pomegranate half not in Azar's hands. He ran a finger over the fruit and dislodged several seeds that scattered over the counter.

Azar watched his hands; every motion fascinating with the play of different colors dyed into his skin. "…Yours?" she replied after a moment, glancing up.

"Mm…It would grow near where I wandered; those who would seek me would leave them as offerings." He bared his teeth in a sharp smile, eyes glittering. "Those who gained my so-called favor would find themselves marked with the juices…"

Azar stilled at those words. Sarkan watched her with half lidded eyes as she lowered her eyes to the counter and the small bowl of pomegranate juice sitting on it. "Did you give them a choice?" she asked, curiosity overcoming the small voice urging her to stay silent and to start edging towards the door.

Sarkan chuckled, another smirk, wide and darkling, curving his lips. "Doubtlessly they would cry nay but they all had warnings and chose to ignore them." He tilted his head back thoughtfully. "You though…You need no such warnings."

It was Azar's turn to smirk. She knew precisely how little she knew of the being before her. The others in Kooza were just as wary as her, if not more so; they didn't know Sarkan, didn't _want_ to know him. He was the Trickster, enigmatic and aloof and _powerful_. "Where is this going Sarkan?" she asked in her usual fashion: blunt and to the point.

Sarkan smiled. "I've always thought you looked marvelous in red," he murmured. She frowned. Understanding dawned as Sarkan picked up and held the bowl of collected pomegranate juice in one hand. "May I?" he asked in a soft voice, holding out his free hand. Azar looked at him, surprised to see a strange eagerness battling uncertainty in his eyes. He _wanted _this, she realized. He wanted his markings on her skin but was leaving the choice up to her. She considered it for a moment...And gently placed one of her hands in his outstretched hand.

Sarkan's smile widened by a fraction and he gave a content sigh, curling his fingers around hers, eyes closing for a moment. He set the bowl of juice back on the table by her hand. He dipped a finger in the small pool of juice, deepening the stains already present there. He carefully trailed the same finger along the back of her index fingers, lips twitching as he watched the juice bead on her skin for a moment before sinking in and spreading in a rich scarlet stain. Azar studied the rich shade and decided that she liked it, smiling at Sarkan.

"Let me do the others then," he murmured, dipping his fingers back into the bowl. She nodded and watched as he quickly applied more to her middle, ring and pinky fingers, finishing her other index finger with the last of the juice. Azar studied her hands, flexing the fingers to watch the play of light on her skin. Sarkan tilted his head to one side and hummed thoughtfully.

"Might I suggest one change?" he asked. Azar shrugged a shoulder and his lips twitched. "Change the coloring to gold. It would contrast with your clothing and hair, bringing out some of the aspects of the markings along your brows and cheekbones. It would also," he paused to smirk at her. She raised an eyebrow and glared. "It would also refract in the light during your practice, catching everyone's eye."

Azar stared at her hands, considering the suggestion. She was not quite as vain as some of the others but she did like it when the others watched her perform, commanding their respect and attention. She smiled as Sarkan tapped one finger on the table idly as he waited for her response. "They would also match your markings," she pointed out, her tone dry. "…I'd like that."

Sarkan looked surprised for a moment but nodded, brushing his fingers along the back of his hands, transforming the red to a shining gold that glittered even in the kitchen's low light. Azar hummed, pleased with the new look. Sarkan also looked pleased, catching one of her hands in his and brushed his lips over the gold. Azar sighed and closed her eyes, enjoying his attention. "Ilkin is going to murder us if we leave his kitchen in this state," she said after a moment.

Sarkan growled, his breath warm as it washed over her hands but he pulled back reluctantly and stood up. "True," he agreed with a sigh and started collecting the few leftovers from their dinner, taking them to the large refrigerator for storage.

Azar stood and brought some of the dishes over to the sink, turning on the hot water and scrubbing at the dried gravy and remnants of food. She heard the fridge door swing shut. Seconds later, she gasped as she felt Sarkan press up against her, having ghosted across the kitchen on silent feet. "Absolutely _marvelous _in red," he whispered, tracing intricate patterns down her arms before twining his fingers with hers.

Azar shivered and Sarkan chuckled before lowering his head and pressed a soft kiss to her neck, teeth scraping over her skin. Azar closed her eyes and groped blindly for the hot water tap, Sarkan's fingers still intertwined with her. "I think Ilkin can handle a few dirty dishes…" she managed to breathe out as Sarkan started maneuvering her towards the door, his low laughter vibrating along her spine.

* * *

**AN: And, here's another oneshot masquerading as a drabble! More importantly, it covers Azar getting the gold leaf on her fingers. And yes, I know she has gold leaf on all her fingers including her thumbs but when this was first written, I couldn't tell from the picture in the program and now I like the aesthetic of her thumbs not having gold leaf on them. **

**As a side note, Sarkan has an ulterior, personal motive for suggesting the color change. He would mark his victims with the juice of a pomegranate in such as fashion that it was quite clear who had done so and what he had been up to with them when he'd applied the markings. If he was in a nice mood, he would kill the girl. If he wasn't, he would leave her near the edge of her village, to be discovered. His markings would make sure they were ostracized and occasionally, they would end up pregnant with his child. **

**So while the markings are completely different on Azar, the color still triggers memories of his past escapades. Sarkan doesn't want to particularly remember those. Hence the color change, which has the bonus of y'know, being canon in the trapeze artist's character design. **


	11. Marked

Aysu sighed as she finished her cool down stretches, relishing in the pleasant burn left in her muscles from the practice she'd just finished with Jayden. She walked over to her partner and smiled as he fussed over his unicycle, oiling the various gears and making sure that everything in working order. He was running his hand over the tire, feeling for any tiny rips or tears. She smiled down at him, fiddling with the small cap he wore. She turned the hat so it sat backwards on his head and giggled at his grimace, though his eyes remained fixed on his unicycle, which he called Abby. "Is everything alright?" she asked finally.

Jayden gave another little grimace before standing up, hefting the unicycle over one broad shoulder. "There's a tear along her tire's right side. I'll need to replace the tire and check the inner tube before we can practice again." Aysu nodded, understanding. If there was one thing everyone within Kooza took seriously- besides Ilkin's baking but that was Ilkin's _baking_- was the maintenance of the equipment everyone used. If something were to fail…Azar gave a mental shudder at the thought. For her and Jayden, the results wouldn't be too horrible. But for someone like Azar or the high wire group, it could be catastrophic.

"You can do that now then, before dinner," she replied, smiling up at him to try and distract herself from dark thoughts. He nodded and smiled back at her, his eyes crinkling. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders since she was too small for him to reach her waist and they walked back to the bataclan's entrance. They were halfway through the entrance when a smooth voice spoke, startling Aysu.

"Jayden. May I have a word with Aysu?"

Both Aysu and Jayden looked to their right to see the Trickster leaning against the wall, his face impassive. Aysu felt a frigid fright settle in her stomach. Next to her Jayden stirred uneasily, his protective nature warring with his respect for Kooza's creator. "Yeah, I guess it's fine…" he said after a moment. "I can get a head start on replacing Abby's wheel…" The Trickster gave a nod and Jayden slipped away, leaving Aysu alone.

"What can I do for you Trickster?" she asked, her mouth feeling dry and rough. She tried to ignore her fear and focused on making sure she didn't stutter when she spoke. Trickster didn't reply immediately, staring at her for what felt like an age, his white eyes fixed on hers. She was the first to look away, glancing down with a flush of embarrassment.

"…I do not interfere in the relationships within Kooza unless asked. Neither do any of the others." His voice was flat but it still inspired a deep foreboding feeling in Aysu. "Azar has mentioned to me that you have been vocal on the subject of my relationship with her, despite her repeated…attempts to dissuade you from the topic." Trickster's lips twitched and there was brief flicker of amusement in his eyes at the mention of Azar's "attempts." Invariably, they were loud, forceful and filled with Azar's colorful language.

Aysu felt the urge to repeat her arguments to the Trickster, to try and make _him _see sense but her well developed sense of self preservation kept her mouth glued shut, though she still frowned as she looked down at the ground. Trickster watched her for another long interval before speaking again. "You are aware that Azar does not view your relationship with Jayden in a favorable light, yet you do not hear her haranguing you about it because it is _none of her business, _as she well knows. Please extend her the same courtesy. Will you do this?"

Aysu felt another blush heat her cheeks. The Trickster did not, as he said, get involved with things unless he was asked to do so by one of the people within Kooza. The only time he did approach someone- other than Azar of late- was to deliver a quiet reprimand for some foolish action or to help with an injury that could not be fixed by rest, a long application of ice and well wrapped bandages. She was distracted from her thoughts by long fingers, surprisingly warm, placing themselves under her chin and forcing her head up so that she had nowhere else to else to look but into the Trickster's eyes. "Will you do this?" he repeated, steel starting to lace his voice.

"Y-yes," she heard herself saying.

The fingers vanished and the Trickster stepped back, a look of satisfaction crossing his face. "Good. I believe Jayden mention something being wrong with Abby's tire? He would appreciate your help greatly I believe."

Aysu gave a jerky nod and after murmuring a faint goodbye, bolted into the depths of the bataclan.

* * *

**AN: Poor Aysu. But she was really harassing Azar about her relationship with Sarkan whenever she got a chance. Azar will be irate that Sarkan pulled this without telling her but at the same time she's going to be relieved that Aysu stopped bugging her. **

**That being said...This is the last drabble for Foundation. Sarkan and Azar are together, they're content, things settle down for the next few centuries until Cyrus comes into the picture. I'm not sure what set of drabbles I will post next- I'm leaning towards the Pre-Show, Pre-Athanasius ones just to fill in the last of the backstories but there's also the second Azar and Sarkan series but those haven't been written yet.  
**


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